


puck you anyways

by jediseagull



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Asexuality Spectrum, Hopeful Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 14:59:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5544302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jediseagull/pseuds/jediseagull
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a joke here somewhere about Sid not scoring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	puck you anyways

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heeroluva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heeroluva/gifts).



> Huge thanks to [artifx](http://fxraarfx.tumblr.com/) for her heroic efforts dealing with me struggling through two drafts of AN ENTIRELY DIFFERENT FIC, for coming up with the idea that became this one, and for then editing it at the last minute (sorry). 
> 
> Translations for French and Russian (also helpfully provided by artifx) can be viewed by hovering over the text. 
> 
> Happy holidays, heeroluva! I hope you enjoy it.

That they even make it to the playoffs is a miracle. Sid loves his team, but effort can only carry you so far when you’re playing with two-thirds of a roster and half of a heart. The Pens are tired in ways that go deeper than muscle and bone.

It doesn’t make losing in five easy, but there’s a quiet resignation on the flight home from New York. None of the guys can really work up the anger they might have felt in another year, under different circumstances. They lost, but Duper’s alive. Olli’s alive. (Nobody has the fucking mumps.)

Right now, that’s enough to be grateful for.

“You’re not going to go back to your house and cry a thousand tears, are you?” Flower asks. His face is pinched with unhappiness, but he’s dealing with their undignified exit about as well as Sid could've hoped for.

“Mais non,” Sid says in his stilted French. “Et tu?”

Flower shrugs a little. “Probablement pas.”

Sid’ll take that. For better or worse, Flower is one of a handful of people who knows what it’s like to be given sole responsibility for the Pens’ successes - and their failures. It's bullshit, of course, especially when their top d-pairing is out indefinitely, but Sid can’t control what the media writes.

“Geno might, though,” Flower adds consideringly after a moment, still in French. “Ten games with no points, you know what they’ll say.”

He really does, even if it’s no truer for Geno than it is for Flower.

“I’ll talk to him,” Sid promises. Anyways, he wants to tell Geno about Worlds before the news gets announced. He hasn’t called Jim yet, but Canada’s GM had made it clear Sid’s invitation to join the national team didn’t have an expiration date. Unless Russian management is out of their minds, Geno will have the same offer.

A fresh start at Worlds will be good for him - good for both of them, he hopes.

But there’s a time and a place to have that conversation, and it’s not with Geno stewing at the back of the plane.

A lot has changed in the past ten seasons. Sid’s older, more experienced. He’d like to think he has a better sense for those moments when he needs to step in as the captain. Every instinct of leadership is screaming at him to pull Geno aside so he’s not brooding over the series all night long, but Sid’s been Geno’s friend longer than he’s been his captain.

And as his friend, Sid knows Geno won’t want to hear it. Not tonight. So when they land in Pittsburgh, Sid offers him a tiny smile and says, “Lunch tomorrow?”

Geno swings his duffel onto his shoulder, but he doesn’t smile back. “No plan with Flower?”

“Nah,” Sid says. “French-Canadian debrief is always the night of locker cleanout.”

Geno shifts his weight side to side, thinking. “Okay. I’m pick up at noon.” He still laughs at Sid’s reflexive grimace, though not as loudly as he would have back in October. “End of season, you’re most skinny. Best time to fit you in car.”

“I don’t need to fit in your stupid car,” Sid grumbles, but he bumps Geno’s fist with his own and says, “Noon.”

He goes home. He doesn’t cry, because sad isn’t the word for the disquiet he feels itching under his skin, keeping him awake. After a few minutes of tossing and turning in bed, he sighs, kicks off the duvet so he can reach the lotion in his bedside table, and sticks a hand down his boxers. It's been a while, and it'll help him sleep. 

Sid likes orgasms as much as the next guy, but this is the first full season he’s played in years. He didn’t exactly have energy to burn during playoffs; now that they’re out it’s a moot point. He rubs himself a couple of times to slick up, squirming under the touch, and then he gets a hand around his dick and starts jerking off in earnest. His eyelids flutter closed; his mouth parts on a silent gasp. All he can focus on is the sensation of it, the way the slide of his palm makes his muscles twitch and his hips snap up into each stroke, chasing more. Heat builds, inexorable, radiating out from his groin until he’s sweating with the need to finish. His toes curl into the mattress, pushing against the springs. He’s so close.

An image flashes behind his eyelids: the lean weight of another body pressing him down against the bed, sinking down on him with teasing slowness. Broad palms skim over his sides, and he shudders.  

 _Geno_ , Sid thinks, and then he tightens his grip on one last twisting drag and comes so hard he nearly blacks out, blinking stupidly at his ceiling.

What the fuck.

Okay. So that’s new. And weird.

Discomfort prickles at the base of his skull, but he pushes it away.  

It probably doesn’t mean anything. He was worried about Geno and his brain crossed some wires, that’s all. As long as it doesn’t affect his game - and it won’t - he’ll just chalk it up as a one-off and do his best to forget about it.

Embarrassment still makes his heartbeat kick up when Geno’s impractically tiny sports car pulls into his driveway the next day at 12:30, late even by his usual standards. “I should make you do bag skates for tardiness,” Sid calls, turning to grab his wallet from the hallway table to cover his flush. Geno makes faces at him through the windshield.

“I’m so thoughtful, let you sleep in -”

“If you were thoughtful, we’d be taking my car,” Sid complains, eyeing the low-slung door with trepidation. “I hate this thing.”

Geno rolls his eyes. “You want lunch, you get in, whiny.”

There’s just no way to do that gracefully; Sid clambers into the car as Geno grins at him, tongue poking out. “Alright,” Sid huffs when he’s finally seated. “Let’s go.”

They wind up at a steakhouse right next to the Cheesecake Factory. Geno catches the longing look Sid casts at their display case and says, mock serious, “If you’re good, I’m buy you after.”

“Diet plan,” Sid says automatically, but his mouth waters at the thought. He’s going to demolish about ten thousand calories worth of junk food on his first cheat day this summer.

“It’s offseason,” Geno informs him. His eyes narrow when Sid doesn’t immediately agree. “Or not.”

“Yeah, about that,” Sid says. “Table for two, please,” he tells the hostess, and waits until they’ve been left with menus and water to continue, “I’m going to tell Jim Nill I want to play at Worlds.”

Geno nods without any indication of surprise. As well as Sid knows him, the understanding has always been mutual. “When you’re leaving?”

“Monday or Tuesday afternoon, I think. I haven’t bought my ticket yet.”

“Maybe Nill say no, we’re not want old man Sidney Crosby,” Geno teases. “Only have baby rookies on team.”

“Spezza is four years older than me,” Sid protests, but Geno has a point. Nate and Aaron Ekblad are both on the roster and they're Taylor’s age. Sid feels simultaneously ancient and panicked by this; his sister’s supposed to stay a kid forever.

“Too bad,” Geno says solemnly. “Canada not appreciate experience like Russia does.”

It’s as good of a segue as any. “Are you going too, then?”

Geno gnaws on his lower lip. “Maybe. If they call, of course I’m go.”

“They’d be dumb not to,” Sid says. Neither of them mention Sochi, and the rest of lunch is spent discussing who they’re hoping will knock the Rangers out of contention for the Cup.

(Geno’s pulling for the Caps, but Sid thinks that going to seven games against the Islanders is a sign their defense is so terrible even Alexander Ovechkin won’t be able to make up for it. Besides, Montreal’s going to want revenge for last year.)

After that, everything seems to happen all at once. He calls Jim that afternoon, and by the time cleanout rolls around on Sunday, his addition to the tournament roster has been announced. It means fielding a lot of questions about why he’s finally chosen to return to non-Olympics international play, but the beat reporters are mostly going through the motions. They know his injury history as well as anyone else does, and so they know exactly why it’s taken him nine years to go back to Worlds.

Then there's the end-of-season dinner, which Duper's insisted on hosting. (“I’m tired of feeling useless,” he'd said, smiling tightly, and that shut up Tanger and Flower’s bickering more effectively than anything else could.) Sid makes a quick stop back at his place for a bottle of wine and then drives to the Dupuis home, where he’s immediately mobbed by no less than six children and Carole-Lyne, who swoops in to save the wine and kiss both his cheeks before abandoning him to his fate.

“Thanks for volunteering to watch the kids, bud,” Duper hollers from the kitchen. Sid’s too busy listening to Maeva explain her science fair project to answer, but he thinks uncharitable thoughts about French-Canadians who don’t deserve their admittedly adorable offspring until dinner is served.

The discussion at the table mostly revolves around Tanger’s upcoming wedding, which means that Sid gets to enjoy watching Carole-Lyne and Vero make fun of their husbands’ terrible opinions far more than he probably should.

“Honestly,” Vero finally says, when the debate over boutonnières has reached fever pitch. “Let’s not pretend that you had anything to do with it other than showing up and looking pretty.”

Carole-Lyne laughs. “Count yourself lucky. Pascal only managed one of the two.”

Duper yelps in outrage, but Catherine is grinning.

“I’d be okay with that,” she says, and Tanger smiles so goofily that Sid can’t hold back his own snort of laughter.

“Your _face_ ,” he says.

“Just wait ‘til the wedding day,” Duper advises him sagely. “And bring a camera. It gets worse.”

“I hate to break it to you,” Flower says in a stage whisper, “But that’s exactly the way you look when you see the locker room again after the offseason.”

“Marc-Andre!” Vero scolds, but Sid raises his hands in willing acknowledgement.  
  
“We can’t all be so lucky, eh?” Not that _luck_ is why he hasn't found someone. 

“Charmer,” Carole-Lyne says. “Just for that, you don’t need to help with cleanup.”

“Hey!”

Enough to be grateful for, Sid reminds himself, and his smile comes easily.

* * *

Worlds isn’t like Sochi. He can’t go watch the Russian team play whenever he feels like it, but he follows them on his phone, and McLellan’s been getting recordings of all the teams playing in Ostrava. He’s more than happy to share the videos of Russia’s games with Sid when he asks. Canada’s definitely going to be making it to the playoffs, so it’s good preparation.

In the meantime, their bulldozer run through the rest of Group A hasn’t stopped the media from trying to manufacture drama like they think he’s going to snap one day during practice and try to cave Giroux’s face in. Sid’s played on the international stage for long enough to know how to compartmentalize. The Flyers may be assholes in orange, but here they’re wearing the maple leaf, same as everyone else.

That’s the attitude Sid comes in with, anyways, and it seems he’s not alone. Besides the Flyers, LA, Colorado, and Dallas have all sent a handful of players each, but the moment they step on the ice there’s only one team that matters. He’s not going to use the C to insist on everyone getting buddy-buddy with each other outside of practice, but he’s glad that the guys aren’t splintering off into cliques, either. They get a couple of meals in as a big group, and the chemistry during games keeps on rolling.

Even when their families arrive and everyone goes off to do their own thing, it’s not like it’s a hardship to spend time in the city with his parents and sister. Prague is beautiful. Canada keeps winning. He gets periodic congratulatory texts from Geno, and sends one of his own the night Russia advances to the semifinals.

_nice goal G_

His phone buzzes a few hours later. _see u in prague )))))))))))_

“The Russians just added Ovechkin,” McLellan says bluntly after practice the next day. “There’s a very real possibility that we’ll be facing them on Sunday. So tomorrow we’re going to go out there and beat the Czechs, you’ll have a couple hours to clean up and talk to the media, and then I want you all at the game.”

“Yes, Coach,” they chorus, and McLellan nods and dismisses them. Sid's family won’t be back from their day trip until late tonight, so he’s free for the rest of the evening.

 _hitting the bikes_ , he taps out. _dinner after?_

He doesn’t wait for a response - Geno will either say yes or no, and Sid wants to get a good forty-five minutes in. When he gets to the exercise room in the O2 Arena, though, there are already people using the machines, including -

“Sidney!"

“Hey,” Sid says, and stuffs his cell into his pocket to wave awkwardly at Jaromír Jágr.

Jágr pats the empty bike next to him. “You’re taking good care of our little kitten?”

No matter what the Pens say, Sid isn’t _completely_ lacking in social graces. He takes the bike and says, “Ekblad? Yeah, he’s doing great, you know. Young guy, but he’s definitely contributing. I mean. I’m sure you knew that already.”

“No, no,” Jágr says. “Too old! I forget which kittens are which.”

Sid has a lot of respect for Jágr. He’s a fantastic player, he helped Mario and the Pens win two championships, and he holds what Kuni would very scientifically call ‘a fuckton of records’.

On the other hand, he’s also kind of like the crazy uncle Sid never had, and there’s no tactful way to respond to a statement like that. Sid smiles politely and keeps his mouth shut until Jágr’s finished his cooldown and headed off with a cheery, “Tell little kitten I’m not going easy tomorrow!”

Sid’s pretty sure that discretion is the better part of valor in this instance, but he waves back.

When he checks his phone after cooling down himself, Geno’s responded to his dinner invite with three dollar signs and an alien emoji. Sid figures that’s a yes.

Because the Canadians have been playing in Prague for the past couple of weeks, he’s gotten a good sense of the areas around the rink and the hotel. There’s a restaurant not far from where Team Canada’s been staying that does a fantastic lamb dish he’s not even going to try to pronounce, much less spell, but it’s got protein and vegetables and that’s good enough for him.

He texts Geno directions and _20 minutes_ right before he steps into the showers. It’ll take him half an hour to get there, but his stomach is already growling. No point in making himself wait because Geno’s allergic to being on time.

“Sasha is useless,” is the first thing Geno says when he arrives. “Lose to Rangers.”

“I bet your coaches are happy to have him, though.”

Geno groans, but Sid knows he doesn’t want a repeat of their last outcome against the Americans. Even if Ovi’s a ham and a half, he puts the puck in the net.  

“And hey, you can make the press ask him stupid questions instead of you,” Sid coaxes.

“Sasha’s not pushover like you,” Geno says, sticking his tongue out. “He’s make me answer questions anyways.”

“Wow,” Sid says dryly. “If those are the thanks I get, maybe I should take a page out of his book.”

Geno grins at him. “No, is why Sid is best captain. Better than useless Sasha.”

Obviously.

The conversation meanders for a while, catching up on their summer plans - Geno’s going home after the tournament, while Sid has Tanger’s wedding and the inaugural run of his hockey camp occupying his schedule - but it circles back around to the semifinals as they’re heading off to their respective hotels.

“Beat them this time,” Geno says confidently. “I’m let Sasha score so he’s not kick out of country.”

“See you in the gold-medal game on Sunday then, eh?” Sid says.

Geno’s smirk has an edge to it when he replies, “Of course.”

That night, Sid dreams of setting his teeth to the the flash of Geno’s smile in the dusk, and wakes, horny and frustrated, to a wet spot on his boxers.

He deals with it in the shower. Whatever this is, he’s got a semifinal to play.

Trying to hold onto their lead against the Czechs is tense, but at least they have breathing room after Spezza bangs the puck past Pavelec during the second. It’s nothing compared to the way Sid feels watching the US-Russia game, trying not to fidget through two long, goalless periods until, like a dam bursting, Russia scores one, two, three in quick succession. Geno’s empty netter in the dying minutes is nothing more than the cherry on top.

 _congrats_ , Sid sends. He’s had the text ready to go since Ovi’s goal. Then he thinks about it and adds, _play hard._ It’s what he’d said to Geno before Vancouver, too, when luck was too precious to spare.

“From a loss to a shutout? Jesus,” Nate says, shaking his head as the Russians flood the ice.

“Who the fuck cares, man!” Segs has to shout to be heard over the cheering crowd. “We’re still gonna crush ‘em!”

Sid doesn’t want to jinx it by saying anything, but privately, he kind of agrees with Tyler. The Russians are a good team - better than good, really, or they wouldn’t have made it to the gold medal game - but there’s a feeling of inevitability to the wave Canada’s been riding all tournament long. It feels like fact, like fate already written: tomorrow’s game is theirs.

And it is.

Sid’s never felt guilty over a victory in his life, but he sees the instant that Geno realizes his goal is too late to change anything, fury and heartbreak chasing each other across his face.

The clock runs down, and Canada has won.

Sid gets crushed by his teammates, laughing and cheering as the officials try to wrangle them into some semblance of order for the ceremony. They’re not trying very hard - a championship celebration makes for good publicity - and the boys are giddy enough that it takes a few minutes to get them all lined up, ready for the handshakes.

As captain, Sid is first to greet the Russians as they file through. “Congratulations,” Ovi tells him, mouth twisted into a half-smile, but the other players shake his hand without meeting his eyes.

Geno looks straight at him. No matter how many times Sid’s seen that expression on his face this year, it’s never gotten any easier. Geno’s carrying his black and gold gloves under one arm; with the other, he pulls Sid into a hug.

Sid feels the rough embroidery of the Nike patch scrape his chin, his nose filling with the sharp scent of sweat and deodorant and steel - and Geno’s gone, skating off down the line.

In the instant between inhale and exhale, Sid thinks, _come back_. Then he breathes out, and turns his attention to the next guy waiting.

He catches Geno in the hallway afterwards, before he gets caught up in the madness of the locker room. “Hey, good game.”

Geno raises both his eyebrows, mouth flat. “I’m miss other Russian goals?”

“You know what I meant.”

Geno fiddles with the zipper of his team jacket, and says, “I’m not do enough.”

“More than one player on a team, G.”

Geno has the gall to snort at that. “Of course. You’re never blame yourself for Penguins loss.”

“That’s different,” Sid says after a moment, and thumps Geno square in the chest. “Stop laughing at me!”

“Why they make you captain? Terrible at pep talk.”

“I give great pep talks,” Sid says.

“Yeah, I’m feel better already,” Geno replies, more fluent in sarcasm than he is in English. Gentler, he adds, “Go celebrate, Sid. Enjoy win.”

He’s clearly getting ready to leave, and Sid wants to do something - anything - to cheer him up, to not let him leave with disappointment sitting thick and heavy on his shoulders.

“Okay,” he says instead. “Have a nice summer, G.”

He’s basically useless the rest of the day. There’s champagne, and beer, and Seguin is probably posting dick pics of the entire locker room on the Internet right now, but Sid is too drunk to care.

The more alcohol he has, the more he thinks about the solid press of Geno’s body against his, the beads of sweat on Geno’s neck that had begged to be licked away. Maybe Geno would laugh before he returned the favor, and Sid can picture that all too clearly, the tremor of arousal and amusement running through the pale skin under his lips, Geno not yet made golden by the offseason.

They’d go back to the hotel room, and Sid already knows what it’s like to imagine -

He shakes his head violently, trying to dislodge the remembered image. What the hell is he doing? Geno’s a Penguin. Geno’s _team_ , Sid’s alternate for nine months of the year and his friend for all twelve. It’s not just that Sid shouldn’t - he can’t.

But the rational part of his brain’s fighting a losing battle. He’s flushed and jittery and wishing his tracksuit was looser. If he pops wood holding the trophy he’ll never hear the end of it.

He doesn’t, thankfully, probably because he’s too drunk to manage it, but the downside to that makes itself clear the next morning. Unlike his teammates, he isn’t a teenager anymore, and he feels more like a sack of sludge in a Sidney Crosby suit than a human being. Worse, underneath the headache and the nausea, there’s a persistent little voice in his head that’s wondering if Geno’s doing better, if he’s already gotten on the plane that will take him to Russia and away from Sid.

He makes himself stop as soon as he realizes, but it’s like finding a bruise he didn’t know he had, a remnant of the season lingering long past the time it should have healed. Even if he tries not to pay attention to it, he’s always going to know it’s there.

The feeling is disconcerting enough that after he’s chugged two Gatorades and splashed cold water on his face, he fishes out his cell phone and dials a familiar number without bothering to check the time difference.

It’s not like he’ll be interrupting anything. The Jackets didn’t even make the playoffs this year.

“Mff. Sid?”

“Hey,” he says.

“You better have a really good reason for calling at 6 AM, asshole.”

“I’m making sure you’re not going soft in the offseason,” Sid chirps.

“Thanks,” Jack says, muffled like he’s got his face smushed against the mattress. “But seriously, if this is because Fliggy’s roped you into the intervention squad, I don’t want to hear it.”

The intervention - oh, _shit_.

He hasn’t forgotten what Jack’s parents did, but he’d checked in a couple of times when the news first broke, and since then he’d assumed Jack was handling it. If Foligno’s trying to get involved, maybe that’s not as true as he’d hoped.

“No,” he says, clamping down on the immediate swell of shame. “But, um, you know if you need anything -”

“Then I’ll ask. And at a more reasonable time of day, thank you very much,” Jack says firmly. There’s an awkward pause before he prompts, “So if you’re not aiding and abetting my dumb teammates, why _are_ you calling?”

“Um,” Sid says again. He can feel himself blushing, even though there’s nobody else around to overhear. “You remember, at Shattuck, when we - uh. You know.”

“No matter how much I drink to forget,” Jack says, which is fair.

“And you know how we thought, okay, it’s just a hockey thing? Just adrenaline and hormones, not. Not me being into guys, or girls, or - or people. At all.”

“What happened,” Jack says immediately, sounding much more awake now that there’s gossip to be had. “Sid. _Sid_.”

“IthinkIwanttohavesexwithGeno,” Sid says, all in a rush.

There’s a moment of silence.

“ _What the actual fuck_.”

“I know,” Sid groans. “You think I wanted this to happen?”

“You’re sure it’s not a temporary, post-medal, let’s-play-beautiful-hockey-together kind of thing?”

Sid flops onto his bed and tries not to scream into the pillow. “ _No_. I mean, he’s always played great hockey, you know? But this is new.”

“Okay,” Jack says. “So what do you want to do about it?”

“I want it to go away,” Sid says.

“Shit, it’s like you’ve finally hit puberty,” Jack says wonderingly. “I hate to break it to you, but this isn’t something you can change.”

“That’s stupid,” Sid says. He probably sounds like a child, but there it is.

“Yup,” Jack agrees. “But as a wise man once said, the dick wants what it wants.”

Absolutely nobody has ever said that, and Sid’s not certain he believes it anyways. He’s an athlete - physical self-control is his job, for God’s sake. There’s very little Sid’s incapable of when it comes to his body.  

* * *

The hockey school is exactly what he needs. He gets to hang out with Taylor, and the kids are great, every single one of them so thrilled to be there that he’s already trying to figure out if they can expand the program for 2016. After chasing a hundred and fifty-odd tiny hockey players up and down a rink for a few hours Sid feels like a rookie again, so tired and happy that he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He doesn’t even protest the documentary crew trailing him everywhere; the more publicity and support they get, the more kids they can help next year.

At the end of the week, his mom insists he come over for dinner on his birthday. “I know it’s the last day of camp, but we’ve barely seen you since you came back.”

That’s more a side-effect of the cameras than anything else. Cole Harbour hasn’t become a booming metropolis since he first left for Shattuck, but so much of his life is already on public display. The rare time he gets with his family doesn’t need to be part of that. The film crew is scheduled to leave as soon as camp ends, though, so Friday night finds him pulling into the driveway of his parents’ house, Nate in the passenger seat.

“I dunno,” Nate says, dubious. “Are you sure it’s okay that I’m crashing?”

“Of course,” Sid says. Frankly, Nate’s doing him a favor by coming. There’s always a part of Trina Crosby that’s going to worry about her son not having any friends, but his parents like Nate. He’s affable and baby-faced and all but guaranteed to make a good impression.

“So, Nate,” his dad says over the baked salmon. “Are you getting used to Denver?” Sid does an internal fist pump in victory. His dad’s vendetta against Patrick Roy doesn’t _quite_ extend to the team he coaches, but if Sid can get him started on the Avs’ season, the ensuing lecture will easily last to the end of the meal.

“Yeah, I think I’ve finally settled in.” Nate laughs. “Though it was rough for a while when Talbo left, trying to figure out where I was going to crash. Not like I could just move in with Vanessa, you know?”

Sid’s mom perks up like she’s spotted an empty net. “Your girlfriend? How long have you two been together?”

“A bit more than a year, but she lives in LA,” Nate says, the back of his neck going red. Taylor bites her lip, obviously fighting a smile until Sid mouths, _be nice_.

“Must be great weather when you get to go visit her, though,” she says casually, like she wasn’t just enjoying Nate’s suffering at the hands of the parental inquisition.

“It makes a good change from Denver,” Nate agrees.

“That’s lovely that you’re making it work,” his mom says, shooting Sid a pointed look. “It’s so nice to have someone to share your life with, isn’t it?”

The thing is, everyone assumes that Sid’s single because he’s chosen to put hockey first. Having a wife, having a family - that’s a big commitment. If Tanger or Duper had been told last year that they could pick playing in the NHL or being around to see their kids grow up, it wouldn’t have even been a choice. He gets that.

So the assumption isn't necessarily wrong. He puts hockey first - does every day - but he’s not sure it was a choice for him either.

Sid grew up in locker rooms, and it’s not prudishness that keeps him from joining in when his teammates get to talking. But the things they say they want - _that_ , he doesn’t get at all.

He liked Jack. He liked the few girls he’s dated. He wanted to spend time with them when he could, enjoyed their attention and affection, but he never felt like he was in love with any of them. And sooner or later he always ran into the same problem: they wanted sex, and he didn’t. He's never liked people touching him. If he can get the same results by himself, what’s the point?

He tried once to stay with a girlfriend long enough that they could talk about kids. Sid’s always dreamed of having a family. She was kind about it when she broke up with him; he’s not good at hiding what he feels.

He doesn’t want to be alone, but he can’t force himself to be any different than what he is. He came to terms with that a long time ago.

Except. Except Sid hasn’t been alone for the last nine years. Geno is his one sure thing in Pittsburgh, and Sid's inability to be in love hasn’t gotten in the way of the hockey they’ve built together.

That’s how he wants to keep it. That’s how he _has_ to keep it.

* * *

Seeing the Pens logo in the locker room at the new practice facility is like coming home to a place he’s never been. Sid doesn’t even try to hide the dopey smile on his face as he makes a beeline for his stall. The guys can chirp him all they want, but there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

When he gets to the rink Flower’s already out there, cooing at the posts and crossbar like he’s trying to chat them up. He’s got his back turned, and Sid takes the opportunity to fire a shot into the net. Flower spins around with a betrayed look on his face.

“Fuck off, that’s cheating - oh. _You_.”

“Me,” Sid agrees, grinning. “Hi, Flower. How are the girls?”

“Sad they’re never going to see their Uncle Sidney alive again,” Flower says, and lunges for him.

Eventually the rest of the guys hit the ice, putting a stop to the attempted homicide. They don’t have anywhere close to enough people to run full plays, but Sid makes them go through some basic drills, getting them readjusted while Flower stands in net and says mean things about their form.

Sid was Canada’s before he was ever Pittsburgh’s, but the fact is that he _is_ Pittsburgh’s, and he can lay claim to the city right back. Pittsburgh is his, too, its rivers and bridges and gleaming skyscrapers as familiar as the chipped paint on his parents’ house in Cole Harbour. Despite the tire fire that was last season, he’s happy to be wearing black and gold again. Nothing can shake his deep-seated contentment, right up to the moment when Kuni glances up from his phone before practice one morning and says, “Look who’s here.”

Geno looks exactly like he always does at the end of summer: tanned skin, tousled hair, and clothing somewhere in between fashion victim and mauled-by-tigers. Which is to say, ridiculous but also vaguely hot. Sid is instantly, horribly aware that his problem has only gotten worse. His skin feels too small to contain him.

“You’re all miss me so much, I know,” Geno says, beaming benevolently down upon them while Ian and Eric make gagging noises in the background.

“Just a heads up, Sid’s been plotting ritual sacrifices to improve the power play unit while you were gone, G,” Duper says, because Duper has a degree in making Sid’s life hell.

“Because he’s miss me the most,” Geno says promptly. Sid knows his cheeks have gone pink, even as Geno continues, “How we score on power play with only second-best center?”

“ _Hey_ ,” Sid says, and then says it again when Geno laughs and knocks the brim of Sid’s cap down over his face.

Sid doesn’t bother to tip it back up. Maybe he can just hide under there until the season has started; they’ll get down to the business of playing hockey, and things will get better.

He hopes.

Johnston wants to try him with Kessel, which Sid’s been expecting since the day he heard about the trade. Kessel’s been demonized for anything and everything the Toronto media can throw at him, but all of the qualities that make him a repeat Olympian are apparent from his very first practice in a Pens jersey.

Someone of that caliber is bound to stand out against the rookies and call-ups. Sure enough, Kessel - Phil - more than keeps up during training camp. He’s fast and he has a wicked shot. Any center would be happy to have him on their right wing.

Sid….isn’t.

Look. Realistically, Duper’s only got another couple of years left in him at best. The coaches want a plan for the future, and Kessel’s it. Duper won’t see it as a betrayal for Sid to play with another winger, and after last season Sid had to get a lot more flexible about his linemates. It’s not anyone’s fault that Sid feels off-balance and out of step with his line. The chemistry with Phil will improve. He’s trying. They’re all trying.

But Duper promised that he’d come back, and Sid hates the idea that there won’t be a place for him when he does.

 _If_ he does. Seriously, did someone piss on Lord Stanley’s grave or something? Losing players to injury during games happens. That’s the nature of the sport.

Losing players to injury during _practice_? Sid’s more superstitious than most, but even a skeptic would have to admit it: the Pens are cursed.

“Good news and bad news,” Duper says. They open the season against the Stars in less than a week. “The good news: it’s not the clot.”

“Thank fuck,” Scuds mutters, and twenty one voices echo the sentiment.

“But -”

“How long,” Sid says wearily.

Duper’s not the kind of guy to make a big deal out of his own misery. Sid can see it in his eyes, though, and he knows what’s coming even before Duper says, “Four to five weeks.”

His tone makes it clear that he won’t tolerate pity, but Sid doesn’t know what else to offer.

“We’re not even notice you gone,” Geno says, lovingly assholeish, before he can even begin to shape the word _sorry_.

Sprong looks horrified, like Geno kicked his puppy - and then Duper starts to laugh.

Like that, the quiet breaks, guys chirping Duper about wanting to get out of the roadtrip and punching his arm in sympathy. Plotnikov turns to Geno for a translation of the joke, and Geno grins smugly as he presumably explains what he said and how he’s the greatest alternate ever.

Sid wants to wrap him up in a hug and squeeze until Geno _oofs_ , and even that doesn’t seem like enough to express the all gratitude welling up in him. He could kiss Geno right now, he thinks, and then feels something in his chest twist.

Sid doesn’t look at him again.

At warmups before the game Seguin waves enthusiastically from across the ice. Sid waves back, and Geno swoops in to grouch, “He’s try to distract you.”

“He wouldn’t,” Sid mumbles. His face is probably doing something terrible and embarrassing.

“Might,” Geno says, glaring at Seguin.

If he stays here any longer Geno’s going to notice that _Seguin_ ’s not the reason Sid’s distracted. “He’s a good kid,” Sid says stiffly, and skates off to talk to Flower.

He feels like he does when he’s forced to break his routines, unsettled and unhappy because something has changed. But this isn’t like taking a different street to the rink or buying a different brand of peanut butter. This isn’t something he can control.

It doesn’t help that he’s not playing well. Passes aren’t connecting, shooting lanes aren’t opening up. He’s missing all of his chances. He keeps thinking about how he could have leaned backwards a little when Geno was standing behind him. They’d have been pressed together, spine to chest, Geno a solid line of muscle grounding him.

He thinks he would have liked that. Everything else aside, he likes being able to rely on Geno.

Sometimes, though, he wishes Geno didn’t know him so well. Geno keeps frowning at him on the bench like he can read every single one of Sid’s horrifying thoughts, and every time he narrows his eyes in Sid’s direction Sid wants to pull his jersey over his head and disappear. He’s sure that he’s bright red, and is obscurely grateful that they’ve been playing for long enough that he can blame it on exertion rather than embarrassment.

“- Sid. Sid!”

“Fuck, sorry,” Sid says, already halfway over the boards before he registers that it’s not Johnston shouting at him.

A hand hauls him back. “It’s second intermission, dumbass,” Kuni mutters. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I don’t know,” Sid says, flushing even harder. “Sorry.”  

He has to focus if he’s going to make up their two-goal deficit. Flower’s not even getting shelled, but the team can’t hold it together if their captain’s too busy worrying about being awkward around his teammates to play hockey.

Then Jamie fucking Benn steals the puck to make it 3-0 while Sid’s blocked by Seguin, and that’s the game.

Geno’s expression is thunderous as they file off the ice, and Sid can’t bear to look at him. He _was_ distracted, and they lost.

He doesn’t have anything to do with keeping their loss against the Coyotes from being another shutout, either. That’s all Phil, and yeah, he’s glad someone scored, but Sid might as well not even be on the ice.

He’s feeling like that a lot, lately.

The Pens have always been _theirs_ , his and Geno’s together. Whenever Sid has a slump, the fans and the press turn to Geno to make up for it. There are people who think Sid’s too unreliable to have the C, and they want it to go to Geno instead. But Geno is a steel city boy to his bones. As popular opinion comes crashing down on Sid, Geno steps up his support by being as vocally and physically demonstrative as possible.

Unsurprisingly, this does the exact opposite of fixing the problem.

The worst moment is always the instant before Geno actually touches him, when every nerve in Sid’s body is primed for the contact, desperately waiting for it. It gets to the point where all Geno has to do is be facing Sid’s way, and Sid feels himself turning to him like he’s got a fucking homing beacon in his chest.

He thinks it can’t get worse - and then, the day they play Florida, Geno slides the puck straight across the ice to him. The moment it touches his tape it’s like everything clears. He has a shot. He takes it.

The horn sounds.

“Fucking beauty,” Geno shouts into the small huddle of Penguins. “Show them best, Sid!”

It’s his first goal of the season. Geno’s glove cradles the back of his head, and Sid is burning.

Afterwards, he knows it’s not enough. The media’s decided he’s the story of the moment, and they don’t give a damn whether or not Sid had a three point night.

Taylor, on the other hand, does. She’d actually floated the idea of flying down to Pittsburgh for fall break in early October, but her away game schedule conflicted with the Pens’ own. He can hear her puttering around her dorm room packing for a trip, music pumping faintly through the phone speakers. She's got a single this year, and is apparently taking full advantage of it.

Pathetically, Sid’s glad she didn’t come visit. Getting shut out by the Stars was humiliating enough without Taylor there to watch it happen, and that was before they dropped the next two games. Losing to the Stars again tonight is just feeding the narrative.

“It’s dumb,” Taylor fumes. “You scored two days ago! What more do they want?” Sooner or later he half expects her to fly to Pittsburgh and challenge some of the nastier columnists to a fight, but even a handful of games into season, he’d rather the story be about his failure than his team’s.

Well. He’d rather the story be about their _success_ , but that’s wishful thinking right now.

“It’s the press,” Sid says, sandwiching the phone between his ear and shoulder as he rummages in the fridge for a post-workout snack. “You know they need something to talk about. Besides, I’m not producing the way I should be. Goals are one thing, but I’m not doing my job right if I’m not getting shots for my wingers either.”

“You’re doing alright, though?”

He is, but maybe if he could just get through one practice without Geno fucking _pawing_ at him he’d be able to focus a little better.

“Wait,” Taylor interrupts, “You’re upset because Geno is touching you too much?”  
  
Her tone says: _You play hockey, you lunatic_.

He knows it’s stupid. He thinks about trying to explain that way Geno rests a casual hand on Sid’s leg during tape review makes him want to lean into it instead of paying attention to the video, or how when Geno nails a tricky move during practice and slams him into the boards in celebration, Sid goes weak in the knees. Geno’s not doing anything unusual, but Sid’s never reacted to it the way he is now.

Because Taylor is kinder than he deserves, she says, “You could ask him to stop?”

Sid’s instinctive reaction, which is to shout that he doesn’t _want_ Geno to stop, makes his brain short out for a minute.

When it comes back online, he’s had a realization.

“I’m going to have to call you later,” he says, and hangs up over the beginning of Taylor worriedly asking him if something’s wrong.

His phone buzzes with a text before he’s even set it down.

_WHAT IS GOING ON_

_i can’t tell you_ , Sid types. Then he erases it. _nothing_

Taylor calls him back. “Liar.”

“Nothing’s going on,” Sid says, drawing on every bit of his PR training to sound as convincingly boring as possible. “Someone came to the door, and I had to answer it.”

“Uh-huh,” Taylor says skeptically. “Because you have so many people knocking on your door at 11:30 on a Friday night.”

Sid glances at his watch, and, okay. So it’s well past the time when he’d have unexpected callers.

“I might,” he mutters.

“Fine,” Taylor says. “Don’t tell me. See if I care.”

Taylor has been Sid’s favorite person in the entire world since the moment she was born, but there is no universe in which he’s comfortable telling her that he might, just possibly, be the tiniest bit in love with Geno.

He’s in love with Geno. This is impossible. It’s the most absurd thing that’s ever happened to him, including that Halloween where Beau and Bortz dressed as Playboy bunnies.

It’s incredible he even makes it to the rink for morning skate in one piece. He’s barely slept.

How could he? Falling in love with Geno is beyond stupid.

To say practice goes badly is an understatement. They’re supposed to be running a new play, he and Phil alternating taking shots with Kuni screening. Phil’s already found net with a top-shelf wrister; all Sid’s managed is to send the puck into Flower’s glove and clanging off the post. He’s having a goddamn meltdown, and he can’t fucking _score_.

He snaps off a backhand with more force than he means to, and it flies wide, smacking into the boards behind the net with a heavy thud.

“Fuck!” He flings his stick away and skates over to the bench for water. Frustration bubbles up in him like a kettle boiling over. He wants to hit something until his knuckles bleed.

Geno skates over, because of course the one person he should be avoiding is the one coming to check on him. “You okay?”

“Do I fucking look okay,” Sid bites out.

Geno’s brows snap together. “Trying to help, Sid.”

“I don’t _want_ it,” he snarls. In the space of a heartbeat, Geno’s expression goes from concerned to pissed. He opens his mouth, looking like he’s going to call Sid an asshole or worse, and Sid skates off.

“New line combos,” he hears Johnston call as he goes. “71, you’ll center 61 and 81…”

Nobody else is in the locker room. He sits in his stall, elbows braced on his knees, and breathes. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He feels ground down to a thousand sharp points, directionless fury simmering under every pore.

Duper and Kuni come in and sit on either side of him, chatting quietly as they strip off their gear.

“Okay,” Duper says over Sid’s head, “Even if she’s too young to remember that you didn’t throw her a big party, she’s gonna find pictures on Facebook in ten years, and then you’re fucked because you did huge first birthday parties for Zach and Payton and not for her.”

“I dunno,” Kuni says skeptically. “You really think she’ll get upset?”

Duper reaches around Sid to thump Kuni’s back commiseratingly. “A few weeks ago Lola had a meltdown because all the others got a picture with the Cup.”

“Was Lola even alive when we won the Cup?”

“You think she cares about minor details like that?”

Sid turns to face his stall and starts taking off his own pads. Their conversation washes over him in an indistinct haze, and he’s almost starting to feel like himself again when the rest of the team comes in. The noise kicks up in volume, but Sid doesn’t turn back around. He doesn’t want to know if Geno’s with them.

From across the room, he hears Phil say, “ - not like I can make promises or anything, but I’d stay here long-term if they kept me, you know?”

“Yeah,” Rev agrees. “I’m glad to be back. Nobody in SoCal gives a shit.” He laughs. “Guess you had the opposite problem.”

Phil rolls his eyes. “Believe me, I’m glad too. I was never gonna be a single-city player anyways, not like Sid and Geno.”

Right. Because he’s stuck with Geno and this awful crush for the rest of his fucking career. That’s the last thing Sid wants to be reminded of right now.

“It’s too bad,” he says over his shoulder. “I think you've have done well if you'd stayed in Boston.”

He’s pretty sure Phil doesn’t pick up on the insult - years of vitriol from the Toronto media have made him oblivious to everything but the nastiest barbs.

But Duper - Duper definitely notices.

Even so, Sid doesn’t realize how badly he’s fucked things up until he boards the plane that afternoon and Flower isn’t in his usual spot against the window.

Because Flower is three rows back, sitting next to Phil.

Sid stops dead in the aisle.

Flower doesn’t look up from his console. The rest of the team is studiously ignoring the drama playing out before them. Fine. He knows what he has to do.

Sid sits alone for the entire miserable flight to Nashville, and catches up with Phil as they’re walking to the bus that’ll take them to the hotel.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” Phil says back. He seems entirely uninterested in Sid’s presence, but he doesn’t try to speed up or drop back.

“Bet Nealer gets jealous tomorrow,” Sid says, and waits for Phil to look at him before he continues, “Geno got an upgrade.”

Phil grins, just a little.

Flower sits exactly where he’s supposed to on the flight to DC and proceeds to massacre Sid at CoD, which is how Sid knows he’s been forgiven.

Or half-forgiven, anyways, because Geno is playing like he’s going to stab someone with his skate blade at any moment. He assists Phil in back-to-back game winning goals, and vicious satisfaction colors his voice when he tells a reporter, “I’m just try to help.”

So that’s how it’s going to be. Sid storms the Sabres’ net with a vengeance, sets up Duper and Horny for a comfortable two-goal lead that the Pens promptly lose.

Geno gets the game winning goal himself, this time. He looks happy, and Sid’s gut curls with something in between jealousy and longing.

They’re still on a streak, and he can’t bear the way Geno won’t look at him, but there’s a tiny, petty part of Sid that doesn’t want to apologize.

He’d never needed to be in love with someone. He’d never needed to be with someone at all, because he’d always had hockey.

Now he’s losing that too, and it’s Geno’s fault.

And still, after all that, Sid wants him. He wants to tap their helmets together after the handshake that Geno’s not cruel enough to put a stop to. He wants hugs after goals and kisses after victories, and he doesn’t understand how he’s lived his whole life not knowing what Geno tastes like.

It feels like they’re on the precipice of something, like sooner or later someone’s going to break - and then they go to Edmonton.

“You had to go and score a goal in the last game, bud,” Duper sighs. “Here we were planning on leaving you with the other failing firsties on the Oilers. The original McJesus.”

“That makes me sound like a burger,” Sid says.

“McDavid 1.0!” Horny calls as he sails by. “For our very own Canadian hockeybot.”

“You’re the worst,” Sid says, checking Duper into the boards so he can steal the puck off him. “Stop encouraging them.”

“In your dreams,” Duper snickers. He takes two strides towards Sid - and wobbles.

Sid drops his stick, drill forgotten. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Duper says, trying to straighten. He winces, hand going to his chest, and says so quietly that only Sid can hear it, “Or maybe not.” He doesn’t protest when Sid helps him off the ice, shouting for a trainer.

“It’s just a precaution,” Johnston tells them after Duper’s been driven to the hospital.

Sure enough they all have a group text that says _not dead yet_ with a little skull emoji tacked on at the end.

It’s too much. Everyone on the team is shaken, and Sid can’t reassure them when every time he closes his eyes he remembers the way Duper had gone gray and faltering.

They stop winning games.

Even so, he’s totally blindsided when Geno sits down in front of the press after they get massacred by the Devils and says, every line of his face sagging with unhappiness, “We’re not play right. We’re not work hard. I know it’s tough right now, but it’s - I know we’re mad at each other.”

 _What the fuck_ , Sid thinks.

Geno’s not wrong about the rest of it. They need to work harder, and they need to take this opportunity to look forward and turn things around for the rest of the season.  
  
But to admit that he’s mad to the press? Sid’s been a terrible captain lately, but he’s been dealing with a lot of shit. There’s a line, and Geno just blew right past it.

He tells a sea of microphones that Geno didn’t mean it. He tells them it’s frustration at their recent losses and nothing more that’s causing problems for the team.

Geno waits until Sid’s almost finished to say, “It’s little bit not what I mean. We started get little bit frustrated at each other.”

Which sounds to the reporters like he’s agreeing with Sid, and sounds to Sid like a great big _fuck you_.

“Seriously, G?” he says after the room’s been cleared. It’s the first thing they’ve said to each other outside of calling for the puck in weeks. “How is ‘frustrated at each other’ any better than ‘mad at each other’?”

“I’m say ‘captain mad at me’ instead?” Geno snaps back.

Sid stares, speechless. “I’m - I’m not -” He _was_ , maybe, but Sid’s been trying to deal with this without dragging the whole team down with him. He thought he’d been getting better.

“You’re not what,” Geno growls. “Not talk to me? Not trust me? I’m know you’re upset about Pascal, Sid! Why you’re not let me help?”

“I’m doing what I need to do to play better,” Sid says, because it’s the truth.

Geno stills. “Fine,” he says bitterly. “You’re want slump, I’m not stop you.” He stalks off, and the heavy doors slam shut behind him.

Sid puts his head down and tries not to choke on the disappointment and anger. He’s _trying_.

Geno in a temper is a force of nature. He gets two goals and two assists the very next game, and the only reason he doesn’t manage a double Gordie Howe is because none of the Wild are stupid enough to get in his way. But the Pens’ record doesn’t improve.

Sid’s developing a new theory: apparently he’s only going to produce when he feels like shit. It isn’t enough to make up for the fact that his team is crumbling around him. Geno’s livid all over again, and Duper’s making noises about his health, and Sid -

Put it this way. If he’s right about his theory, he ought to be scoring a hat trick every game.

Sid’s well past the point of needing a surrogate father in Pittsburgh, but when Mario finally pulls him aside, he goes without arguing. He deserves whatever Mario’s going to dish out, even if the older man’s expression isn’t the sternness of an owner taking his star player to task.

“You want to tell me what’s going on?” he asks quietly.

Sid would prefer the scolding. He makes himself meet Mario’s eyes and say, “I’m not leading the team the way the guys need right now.”

“I meant with you and Geno,” Mario corrects.

Sid twitches. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit,” Mario says calmly.

“I -” Sid says, and then has to take a steadying breath. “I didn’t want to let my own problems affect the team.”

Mario raises his eyebrows. “Well, you could try talking to him.”

“I did!”

“Really, Sidney,” Mario says. “If there’s one thing I learned trying to juggle my career and my family, it’s that communication between partners can make or break a relationship.”

Sid chokes on air. “I’m not _in_ a relationship!”

Mario pats his back until he can breathe again and says, “Just talk to him.”

Sid means to. Honestly, he does. But someone must have heard him shouting at Mario, and that turns into a whole _thing_ , the Pens sucking because their captain and co-owner secretly hate each other.

If you believe the media, Sid has spent his career secretly hating 1) Geno, 2) Mario, or 3) both. He could confess his unrequited love to some of the journalists who cover the Pens, and all they’d do is write about how Crosby and Malkin have a difference of opinions.

He issues a denial and keeps his head down. Jen has impressed upon the entire organization how mercilessly she’s going to murder the next person who causes any trouble, and Mario doesn’t ask him again.

Whatever the Pens are doing isn’t sustainable. Geno’s spin-o-rama is so filthy it makes Sid half hard just watching it from the bench, but they can’t rely on him to carry them through another 59 games. They’re supposed to be a team.

They’re supposed to be a lot of things.

What they are, though, is losing. Duper stops skating as many shifts, and every time he leaves the ice early they all take it like a blow.

The second night of their big West Coast roadtrip, Sid leaves his hotel room, crosses the hallway, and knocks on the door.

He knows as soon as it opens. The air leaves his lungs in an unsteady rush.

“How bad?”

Duper’s throat works for a minute. He says, “I’m thinking about it, Sid.”

“Don’t -” Sid says. He has to swallow hard before he can continue, “Don’t worry about the team. You gotta do what’s best for your family, eh?”

“Yeah,” Duper says. “Yeah, I do. But I’m staying as long as I can.”

Twenty-four minutes and thirty-nine seconds.

Twenty-four minutes and thirty-nine seconds is all the time that Duper gets before he gives the team notice. He’s retiring.

Nobody’s happy when they beat the Avs. They’re not _un_ happy, but they’re all missing a piece of their heart. Sid’s hands shake during interviews.

The world shatters and reforms, a little worse than it was, around the gaping space where a number 9 used to hang.

* * *

Facing the team that’s dominating the Eastern Conference, they can’t afford to be torn up over Duper. The game’s going to be brutal enough as it is.

“I’m buying you drinks after because you gonna lose so bad,” Ovi says magnanimously, skating up to center ice where Sid’s retying his skates.

“Fuck you,” Sid says on reflex.

“Hey,” Ovi says, and although he’s still got that mad grin on his tone is softer, more serious. “Come on, drinks after. I’m thinking you need right now.”  
  
Sid switches to his other skate. Frankly, it’s smart of Ovi to ask now; for all that they’ve shared an odd sort of friendship over the years, they haven’t always liked each other in the immediate aftermath of games.

And he really could use a drink. “Where?”

“Hotel bar. We’re at Marriott. Nice, quiet, no other Pens to see you being traitor to our Great Rivalry.”

Sid can hear the eyeroll that Ovi won’t give the cameras a chance to capture, and he snorts. “Yeah,” he says, and stands to go line up for the anthems. “Okay.”

He wishes he was more surprised when they lose.

He’s also not really surprised when he walks into the bar in the lobby of the Marriott and spots Ovi perched next to Nicklas Backstrom. Backstrom’s a good center, but literally the only thing Sid knows about him off the ice is that he seems to get carted around like the Hobbes to Ovi’s Calvin, down to the fact that nobody else ever hears him talk.

It’s fine. Sid doesn’t really want to talk, either.

Ovi spots him and waves frantically, like Sid might miss two massive hockey players in the hotel bar on a Monday night. Sid pulls his cap down further and makes his way over.

“We’re not arguing about game tonight,” is Ovi’s opening line. “I’m buy you shots, and you’re going to drink while I tell you about all cute little Capitals babies. Here.” He thrusts a glass of clear liquid at Sid and waits for him to toss it back before starting in on how adorable all of his teammates’ kids are. He’s gushing about Oshie’s daughter when -

“Sid?”

That voice sounds horribly familiar.

One drink is not enough for this, but Sid turns around in time to hear Ovi say, “What are you doing here?”

“I’m say hi to little Zhenya,” Geno says impatiently, and his eyes slide right past Sid to land on Ovi. “Sasha -” He spits something in Russian that doesn’t sound at all complimentary.

Ovi frowns at him, glancing at Sid before he responds in the same language. Geno keeps moving closer, snarling as he gets into whatever he’s saying, and God, he’s not even looking at Sid.

Sid knows he’s staring, but he can’t help himself. In the dim lighting of the bar Geno’s eyes are shadowed, his cheeks speckled with the darker color of a flush. He’s talking about Sid. He must be; Ovi’s gaze keeps flickering back and forth between the two of them.

Geno sounds _hurt_. His tone makes Sid’s ribcage feel like it’s shrinking around all of the tender parts of him.

He can’t deal with this. Any longer and he’s going to apologize just to get Geno to stop sounding like that.

He turns to Backstrom out of desperation. “So,” he says awkwardly. “You don’t speak Russian either?”

Backstrom gives him a dry, unimpressed look.  

Sid’s going to take that as a ‘no’.  

Geno’s nearly shouting, now. Every time he raises his voice Ovi looks at Sid, and whatever he sees makes him more and more distraught. Finally, he bursts. “So stupid!”

“I’ll say,” Backstrom mutters quietly.

Ovi ignores him, turning to Sid. “Don’t understand,” he says, eyes wide with a distress that seems oddly genuine. “Why don’t you tell him you’re in love with him?”

Geno jerks backwards so hard that he knocks a glass over with his elbow.

“And _you_ ,” Ovi says, rounding on him to let loose a stream of Russian scolding.

Sid should - he should get a napkin, it’s making a mess, and maybe he can just escape out the back and live in Mexico until he dies of humiliation or old age, whichever comes first.

“Right,” Backstrom says, sighing. Without further ado, he grabs Ovi’s elbow and tows him away.

“На здоровье!” Ovi hollers as he’s shoved out the door.

Neither of them moves for a long moment.

“Sasha think he so funny,” Geno says hoarsely. “But he tell worst jokes.”

“It’s not a joke,” Sid says, staring at the bar top.

Geno makes a strangled noise. “Not joke?” he asks. “You’re not date anybody, you’re not fuck anybody. I'm _never_ hear you say you love someone. How is not joke?”

“I’m not - I didn’t,” Sid says. He feels shaky all over. He doesn’t think he can stand up without his legs collapsing underneath him. “I didn’t know. For a while. That I could. Want to.”

Geno’s expression only gets more incredulous. “What, your dick break?”

“No!”

The bartender’s wiping down tables at the far end of the room. Nobody else is around.

“No,” Sid repeats. “I just don’t like other people touching me. Except -”  
  
“Except me,” Geno says, obviously thinking fast. Sid nods. “Is why you’re shout, not want talk to me?”

He nods again.

Geno’s jaw works for a moment. “Okay,” he says. “I’m go say hi to little Zhenya now, he’s wait for me.” He hesitates, and then bumps Sid lightly in the shoulder. “Goodnight.”

After several seconds, Sid manages a response - but by then, Geno’s already left.

Of all the things he expects to see when he wakes up, a text from Geno is just about the last thing on the list.

_can talk?_

They’ve got the morning off before their flight to Boston, but nobody’s going to turn him away from the rink.

And he’d feel better having this conversation in his skates.

 _meet at upmc in 45,_ he sends.

_ok_

The ice is clear. Even the goals have been taken off. The surface, when he steps onto it, is matte and perfectly smooth.

He hears, rather than sees, Geno join him. The hushed slice of his blades is suddenly doubled, but Sid doesn’t slow his pace.

He trusts that Geno will catch up.

“I’m think a lot last night,” Geno says quietly, skating easily beside him. “What about hockey?”

 _What about it_ , Sid thinks, but he knows what Geno meant.

“Hockey comes first,” he says. “But this hockey - Pens hockey, _our_ hockey.”

“Yeah.” Geno’s sigh isn’t one of unhappiness. “For long time I’m know. Sid love hockey best. And I’m love also, of course,” he adds. “Love Pittsburgh, love team. Love Sid, too. ”

“But you’re not _in_ love with me,” Sid says.

Geno shakes his head. “No. Why? I’m think you not want.” He pauses. “I’m not know your dick break.”

“It’s not _broken -_ ” Geno’s eyes are sparkling with amusement, and Sid huffs. “Funny.”

Then he actually registers Geno’s words. “Wait. You thought -”

Geno shrugs, but his expression is vulnerable underneath the teasing bravado. “I’m always think you’re best.”

Even when he thought his concussion meant the end of his career, Sid’s never felt so fragile as he does in this moment. A terrible eggshell hope blooms in him.

“Maybe,” Geno says, and every inch of him is lit up with that same fragility, that same terrible hope. “Maybe I can be in love with you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Sid and Geno both kind of conflate love and sex, but asexuality is a very complex thing! If you're curious, there's a great resource [here](www.asexuality.org/home/) to learn more about it.
> 
> I post fic and general silliness over on [Tumblr](jedi-seagull.tumblr.com/)! Come say hi :D


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